The song was cut short by cries: "Hurry! Move faster! Hurry!"
The lake smiled brightly in the frame-work of the blue wood; the red sun melted, sinking into the wood, and the copper sound of the bells rang out gaily. Around me were anxious faces, the quiet and sorrowful whispering of prayers, eyes dimmed with tears, and the waving of many, many arms, making the sign of the cross.
I was alone. All this was sad error for me, weak despair, a weary desire for grace.
The procession marched on, their faces covered with dust, streams of sweat pouring down their cheeks. They breathed heavily, they gazed strangely as if they saw nothing, and pushed one another and stumbled along.
I pitied them. I pitied the strength of their faith which was wasted on the air. There was no end to this stream of people. A vigorous and mighty cry arose, but it was dark and sounded reproachful:
"Rejoice, O merciful one," and again, "Hurry! Hurry!"
In this whole cloud of dust I saw hundreds of black faces, thousands of eyes like stars on the milky way. I saw that those eyes were fiery sparks from one soul, eagerly awaiting an unknowm joy.
The people went down as one body, pressing close upon one another, holding one another's hands and walking fast, as if the road was terribly long, but they were ready to go to what was their end without stopping.
My soul trembled with an unknown pain. Like a prayer the words of Juna rose in my memory: "The people—the creators of God."
I started forward. I rushed from the mountain to meet the people, went along with them and sang with a full throat: "Rejoice, beneficent strength of all strengths!"